


We All Know How To Fake It, Baby

by echoist



Series: Show Me Where Trouble Goes [4]
Category: The Following
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dogs, Fluff, M/M, Tourism for Psychopaths, Unrepentant Thievery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Trouble is just a friend to me, I know it'll always be there.</i> - Shawn Colvin, Trouble</p>
            </blockquote>





	We All Know How To Fake It, Baby

It's December 19, and Jacob piles their bags in his trunk before leaving for work. He spends the day at the blackboard as if it were any other, answering an odd assortment of science questions, fixing errors in multiplication and showing School House Rock for the last hour of the day, much to his student's delight. He leaves for the airport straight after the final bell, meeting Paul in the airport parking deck, Grace and a few other small necessities in tow. They'd found a day when a flight actually left town for Sioux Falls and jumped at the chance. To anyone with even a passing interest, nothing will seem amiss; just two loving companions off to visit a relative in his time of need. The letters had all been delivered, short term leave without pay had been approved for Paul, and the teachers at Jacob's school had been more than understanding, particularly this close to Christmas Break. Everyone in their plasticine half-lives expects them back in a few weeks, and Jacob takes a deep breath, ruffling Grace's fur and turning back to look at Paul.

'Are we really ready for this?' he asks, his smile giving him away. 'Yes,' Paul answers, pulling Jacob into his arms for a quick, close embrace.

They stash Paul's pretentious SUV in long term parking at ORF, hustling the dog into Jacob's backseat before crossing the state line to the south. They abandon the ancient Volkswagen in a parking deck in downtown Raleigh, Jacob removing the tags and registration while Paul files off the VIN number. They join the shuffle of last minute shoppers and office Christmas parties spilling out into the streets, sliding between drunken revelers in heavy jackets and short skirts, chilled to the bone by the sweeping winter winds. Jacob can't help but laugh at their meaningless lives, Grace's leash in one hand and Paul's fingers wrapped tight around the other.  

They leave the bright lights of the city center behind and walk into less advisable areas of town, Grace growling at strangers huddled in alleyways and anyone who draws too close. Paul spots an aging station wagon parked behind a skeevy motel, flickering neon sign missing several letters and half of the parking lot lights blown. He finds the spare key foolishly stashed in a magnetic box beneath the undercarriage, and wonders if the owner was hoping to cash in on the insurance if anyone actually wanted to steal it. He swaps out the plate, tossing their bags in the back compartment while Jacob sees Gracie into the back. She doesn't like the smell, and Jacob can't blame her, but he soothes her into lying down. 'It's only temporary,' he whispers, as if she could understand.

 

They tear up the timestamped tickets from the airport and parking deck, leaving them in a rummage bin at a rest stop outside Willard. They make it to Wilmington that night and watch the sun rise over the dunes, as relaxed and happy as Jacob can ever remember feeling. There's a motel at the edge of the beach that allows pets, with nothing but a perfect view of the sea and the ever shifting sands out the window, and they spend a day combing the deserted beach for shells. It's cold, and Jacob huddles into his sweater, jeans rolled up above the puddles of salt-soaked sand. Paul doesn't seem to mind the chill in the air, wrapping one arm around Jacob's waist and letting Grace run on as far ahead as her leash will go. She chases the gulls, jumping and snapping at them in their panicked flight, and Paul thinks he might warm up to her, after all. Jacob fills a jar with cracked, pearlescent shells, a single perfect starfish crowning the lot, and tucks it into his bag.

It's a small thing for Paul to unpack his laptop and assortment of technological oddities, indistinguishable black boxes to Jacob's untrained eyes. He scrambles the hotel's wireless signal and hacks the Virginia DMV, lamenting aloud the state's lack of modern technology. 'It's not even a challenge, for chrissakes,' he gripes while Jacob smiles and rubs his shoulders. Ten minutes later, a '96 Buick Roadmaster is registered to one Wil Wilson, registration fees paid, inspection up to date. A tiny wireless printer spits out a registration card, and they're in business.

Paul figures they should stay as far off track as possible to begin with, and Jacob doesn't mind a grand tour of the country while they're at it. His salary at the school had been disappointing at best, but Paul had proved himself invaluable to the bank and scored two raises during their short tenure in Norfolk. They'd cashed out several minor accounts across the city before they left, but Paul's employers deposited his salary directly into one of their highest end accounts. He'd left work on his last day with a stack of traveler's checks to draw less suspicion, hiding them in the lining of their bags. Paul preferred to deal in cash, and large withdrawals from his account had never been flagged as unusual. Jacob knows they're set financially for a few months, if it comes to that, and forces the issue to the back of his mind.

They decide to stay in town through Christmas, as a beach front motel that doesn't mind a well-trained setter pacing through the lobby every so often might be a hard trick to pull off down the road. Besides, Jacob is still jittery, and while Paul isn't exactly relaxed, he knows the rest will be good for them. School's out for the term, and the town is blissfully quiet. They buy groceries and eat like children left home alone, all macaroni and hot dogs and microwaveable burritos. The bars are almost deserted this time of year, even the dives, and the locals tend to cross the street when they see two men walking hand in hand.

They'd signed in to the motel under false names, and the grizzled, sand-worn clerk never bothered asking for ID, so he can hardly complain when they decide to keep the room. Cash on hand is almost never turned down, especially in a town that makes its living catering to vacationers five months out of the year. Barely half the rooms are occupied, and they only ever see a handful of fisherman coming and going down the pier.

Then it's Christmas, and they sit bundled up on the beach, the moon barely a sliver in the night sky above. They share a bottle of wine, drinking straight from the lip and passing it back and forth, the stars spread out like a blanket high over their heads. Jacob lies back with his head against a patch of sea grass, Grace snuggled up beside him for warmth and sighs with contentment. Paul chooses his moment and rummages around in a small bag, pulling out a dried and glazed puffer fish lifted from a local souvenir stand.

'Merry Christmas,' he chuckles, tossing it at Jacob. He catches it reflexively in his hands before dropping it, the spikes leaving sharp dents in his palms. 'Ow,' he complains loudly, pushing Paul over into the sand in response. Paul laughs and lets Jacob tickle his ribs before rolling him over and pressing hot, wet kisses down his throat. Jacob smiles up at him, at the sky, and wallows into the sand beneath his back. It's going to get everywhere, he knows that, and Jacob's never been one for sex on the beach. He's filed that under past experiences that sound great but only end up with massively uncomfortable results. He pushes Paul off after a moment with a slow, lingering kiss and says, 'C'mon, I got you something, too.'

He takes Paul's hand and tugs on Grace's lead, heading back up the wooden steps to the asphalt and choosing the outside staircase up to their second-floor room. Inside, he rummages through a bag and tosses a light pink t-shirt emblazoned with the town's name across its front, the font poorly imitating a post-card from the 1970s. Paul grimaces, and holds it up against his chest for inspection in the mirror. It's just a shade too small, and he knows with a terrible certainty that Jacob will make him wear it.

'Go ahead,' Jacob teases. 'I want to see how the color brings out the spring tones in your skin.'

'Fuck you,' Paul calls back fondly, and strips out of his sweater and undershirt to try the damn thing on. It's too narrow in the shoulders, but otherwise fits like a glove. A very tight, uncomfortable, and hideous glove. He frowns at himself in the mirror, and turns to see Jacob snapping a picture with his camera. 'Oh, you little bitch,' Paul laughs, advancing toward him and throwing him down hard against the worn mattress. Grace whimpers at the squeal of the ancient bed springs, but settles down as she watches the familiar push and pull between her masters play out. Jacob slowly lifts the shirt over Paul's shoulders, hearing the seams give just a little at the effort, and he tosses it down over Grace's head. She paws at it, dragging it over to her pile of towels beside the bed and promptly lying down on top of it.

'See?' Paul teases. 'It's good for something after all.' Jacob laughs, and laughs, until Paul's hands draw moans and gasps from him instead, and after a while he could swear that Paul was actually trying to break the bed frame beneath them.

They wake up exhausted and still a little drunk, packing up to leave before check-out. They spend the afternoon driving south to Myrtle Beach, putting yet another state line between themselves and the lies they've left behind, the tension leaving Paul's shoulders in a steady, gradual evolution of ease and acceptance. They rent a suite on the top floor of a beach front hotel that's seen better days, offering desperate rates for the off season. Jacob leaves the door to the balcony open, just a crack, to hear the waves crash in while they sleep.

He drinks whiskey from a cheap plastic cup on the balcony, thinking about how his parents might have spent their holidays. They haven't heard from him in over two years, and he doubts they'd welcome the contact. His family is large, clustered in groups along the upper eastern seaboard, and their gatherings had always been small, if extravagant affairs. He remembers a time when his mother smiled at him, ruffling his hair and declaring to her sisters that her darling would be following in his father's footsteps and entering Medical School in the fall. He'd been unsure, even then, watching his father's face grow stony with expectation over his thin flute of expensive white wine. Wouldn't want to disappoint the old man, now would he?

Yes, he thinks to himself, and then _yes_ , over and over again. He wants the opposite of everything his father had ever designed for him, and now he was finally getting that chance. Not just for a few years, not just to go out in a blaze of glory, but possibly for the rest of his life. He doesn't fool himself that Paul will stay with him that long; a feral restlessness lives inside his chest, carved deep into his bones. A shadow steps out onto the balcony beside him, takes the cup from his hand and drains it.

'Let's go out,' Paul says, the words low in his throat. 'Stretch our legs for a while,' and Jacob can't find his shoes fast enough.

 

Paul spots her first; a young woman at the bus stop after dark, turning her pockets out to find enough change for the fare. They offer to buy her a coffee from a roadside stand and contribute towards wherever she's headed, which turns out to be nowhere in particular. She's not from the beach, not from anywhere to hear her tell it, and she doesn't care where she's going. Track marks bruise her skin, and she runs one hand over her shaved head when she doesn't know what to say. The teenaged clerk behind the thick glass window barely registers their presence, all bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair falling across his face. He hates his job, probably hates _them_ , and Paul can smell the weed on his faded flannel shirt. By tomorrow, he'll have forgotten they were ever there at all.

They never make it back to the bus stop, of course. Paul strangles her in an alley, one gloved hand over her mouth, pinning her down with brute strength until the twin shadows of apathy and neglect leave her eyes. They keep her worn and fraying backpack, remove her jewelry, and take the duct tape wallet from her back pocket before leaving her in a dumpster. Putrid scraps and restaurant waste cover her from sight, just another junkie left to rot in the ass end of a city abandoned for the winter.

It never even makes the papers.

They walk back to the hotel, Paul shivering from the rush of blood in his veins, the cold unable to reach him through the electric waves dancing beneath his skin. He gives his jacket to Jacob, who curls into it, smelling Paul, Paul, _Paul_ , as he wraps it close to break the biting wind. Paul strips off his shirt the moment they reach their room, still sweating as he unbuckles his belt. Jacob hangs the Do Not Disturb card on the door and locks it behind him, securing the chain in place. Paul pushes him down on the bed, tears off the jacket and the henley beneath it, popping the button on Jacob's pants with his teeth. Jacob moans, grabbing at Paul's arms, his shoulders, as the rest of his clothes fall ungently away to land in a pile beside the bed. Jacob claws his way down Paul's back, leaving shallow, red scratches in the skin before grasping Paul's ass in both hands and digging his fingers into the flesh.

Paul's mouth is rough against his skin, licking and biting, not caring where he leaves his mark. He forces Jacob's arms up over his head, their hands banging against the headboard and Paul holds him down, with a smile so intense Jacob worries for a moment it might split his skin. He pushes his tongue past Jacob's lips, fucking his mouth with a brutal sort of affection, pulling back with Jacob's lower lip captured between his teeth. He draws blood, and Jacob cries out, begging not for surcease but instead for more, always more. By the time Paul enters him, his knees dragged up, hips canting forward, Jacob's eyes have rolled back and he loses himself in the mingling of pleasure and pain. The condoms Paul picked up at a gas station on a whim have ridges and tiny rubber studs and not nearly enough lubrication for their passage to be smooth. Jacob writhes and moans, not caring if the sound carries through the walls. For all he knows they're the only ones on this floor to begin with, and he couldn't stop his mouth if he tried.

Paul comes, fierce and shuddering inside him and Jacob begs, running shaking hands through Paul's hair as his head rests against Jacob's chest. They're soaked in sweat, breath coming in heaving gasps, and Paul slowly, gently moves one hand to Jacob's cock. A few quick strokes are all he needs, one twist of Paul's wrist across his head and the orgasm rocks through him, his back arching up off the bed. Paul slides out from inside him and Jacob can't stop the sigh of displeasure at losing the contact. Paul peels off the condom and ties it off, tossing it in the waste bin before lying back down beside Jacob. They're a mess and he loves it, rubs his hands in it, slips two fingers into Jacob's mouth to let him taste it. Jacob's head finds the space just below Paul's collarbone that was always meant for him, wraps a sweat-slicked arm around Paul's waist and drifts off to sleep, the roar of the tide far below.

 

Jacob cuts his hair in the bathroom before they leave the beach, lightening the color and tinting it a faint red. Paul finds his old glasses amongst the clothes Jacob packed for them, and swaps them out for the contact lenses he never liked, anyway. Paul insists on driving straight through Georgia, though Jacob grumbles at missing the aquarium. He mutters something about a streak of bad luck in Atlanta, and was a fucking giant whale really worth five hours out of their way?

'They're whale _sharks,_ 'Jacob counters, 'the only ones in captivity in the states -' and Paul stops him before he can start listing off facts like a hyperactive eight year old. 'I know,' he says. 'You taught your kids a whole unit on them when some marine biologist came for show and tell.' Jacob smiles suddenly, the argument forgotten.

'You remember that?' he asks, obviously pleased. 'I liked hearing about your day,' Paul answers quietly. 'It was always a hell of a lot more interesting than mine. But don't go thinking that means I like kids,' he adds, trying to inject a hint of menace into his tone and failing. Jacob huffs out a small laugh. 'Wouldn't dream of it,' he assures Paul, and settles back into the worn passenger seat. They stay south on 95 through Jacksonville, but Paul lets Jacob wins the battle for stopping in St. Augustine for pictures and cheap souveniers.

He drags Paul through the Colonial Quarter, and smirks when he catches Paul reading some of the historical markers. They wander their way around the Old City center, snapping photographs and pretending to shop for fancy souvenirs. There's a girl on a corner busking for change, and Jacob stops to listen while she sings. When she starts into a song he knows, he picks up a low harmony line and joins in. Her face lights up, and she sways back and forth with her guitar, swishing her skirt to draw in a bigger crowd.

Paul watches him from across the street, his smirk turning thoughtful, and eventually appreciative as the song goes on. They both drop a few dollars in her basket, but Jacob shakes his head, embarrassed, when she asks him to stick around for a while. 'You never told me you could sing like that,' Paul reprimands gently, winding their fingers together.

'I did a couple of productions in high school,' Jacob shrugs. 'And when I was a kid, my mom always made me sing with her in church. It's not a big deal.'

Paul's lips twist into a grin. 'If you tell me you were a goddamn choirboy, I will shit my pants right here in the street.' Jacob looks up with a smirk. 'I guess I won't tell you then,' he answers with a sly wink, pulling his sunglasses down over his eyes.

 

They head southwest to Tampa, where Paul explains he still has some contacts. Jacob's never seen the city before, and rubbernecks everywhere they go, much to Paul's ill-concealed amusement. They park in a garage on the west side of the city, and take Grace for a long walk in MacFarlane Park. Before the sun goes down, they cross the street and walk a few blocks, stopping outside a tiny, brightly painted shop without a name plaque. Metallic letters spell out 'Recuerdos Baratos!' across the glass panel in the door. Jacob ties Grace securely to a streetlamp and pats her on the head when she whines. 'She'll be ok out here?' he asks Paul, and receives only a sarcastic look in return.

A tiny bell over the door chimes as they step inside, and Jacob stares at the shelves lined wall to wall with shot glasses, large gold jewelry, and colorful tchotchkes of every variety. An elderly woman rises from a padded chair behind the glass counter, her arms outstretched in greeting. 'Tomás!' she cries out and shuffles forward to wrap her arms around Paul. 'Abuelita,' he returns, a genuine smile on his face as he returns the embrace. She ignores Jacob entirely, and he picks up a small bobble-headed turtle from the nearest shelf, deciding not to comment on the unfamiliar alias.

'¿Tú estás aquí para ver a César? _'_ she asks, her hand on Paul's back as she guides him back to the counter. 'Sí, sí,' he answers, and the woman disappears behind a curtain. 'She's your grandmother?' Jacob asks, trying for casual and only succeeding in sounding confused. Paul laughs, his shoulders shaking as he clasps a hand on Jacob's shoulder. 'Luisa is everyone's abuelita in this neighborhood,' he responds as the curtain pulls back slightly. A tall man emerges halfway, eyes narrowed with suspicion, but gives Paul a sharp upward nod of his head. He gestures for Paul to follow him into the back, the weighted curtain swinging back into place behind him. 'Find something to buy,' Paul advises Jacob before following César. 'Postcards or some shit, I don't care.'

Jacob nods and tries to ignore the knot of worry in his gut when Paul disappears. He reminds himself that Paul knows his business, is an expert at it, in fact, and wouldn't have brought them here if it wasn't a safe connection. Luisa returns to the store front, and Jacob gives her a friendly smile, which she returns. She's wearing a deep blue floral print dress with comfortable flats, white hair carefully curled and pinned atop her head. It's warm in the shop, but not overly so, and a calico cat winds around her feet. He can see why the locals would want someone like her as a grandmother.

She pulls out a tray of gold-linked chains from beneath the counter and sets them in front of Jacob, expectantly. He picks up a few in turn, holding them up to his neck for her inspection. He doesn't favor them, but figures that really doesn't matter. 'No, no, no,' Luisa murmurs, placing each one back in the tray and pulling out another set below it. More golden links shine in the colored lights strung from the ceiling, but Jacob sees a band near the back braided from multicolored leather and reaches out for it.

'¿Ah, algo no tan llamativo, sí?' Luisa asks, and he opens his mouth to reply, finally shaking his head in lack of understanding. 'Lo siento señora,' he fumbles. 'No puedo hablar en Español.' She scoffs at him, tying the bracelet about his wrist and turning it about for a better look. 'At least my Tomásito has taught you to be polite, sí?' Jacob nods, smiling as apologetically as he can manage.

'This one suits you,' she declares after a moment. 'I'll take it,' Jacob answers. 'A few postcards to send back home, too,' he adds, leaving the bracelet in her hands to wander about the shop.

'Buen chico,' he hears Luisa say quietly behind him, returning to her chair.

 

Paul reemerges from the back after about twenty minutes and kisses Luisa on the cheek. They exchange a few words in Spanish, but all that Jacob manages to catch are 'young man' and 'sweet.' He figures that means he earned at least some measure of approval, and smiles down at his shoes. He overpays for the bracelet, six hokey postcards, and a small statue of Saint Anthony, which Luisa wraps up carefully in crisp brown paper. 'Ten cuidado,' she says, patting Jacob gently on the cheek.

Outside, Grace lays patiently against the concrete, her tongue lolling to one side. Jacob unties her and they walk back to the car in silence. Jacob fills a small dish with water from their cooler and lets Grace drink her fill on the asphalt before they leave to find a hotel. Once the car door closes behind them, Paul speaks for the first time.

'César needs three days,' he explains. 'I've used him before, his father's in the business too.' Jacob nods. 'I paid him half in advance, he'll come through for us.' Paul sticks the keys in the ignition and the Buick sputters halfheartedly to life. 'How do you know the police aren't watching?' Jacob asks, holding in his second fear; _what about Joe?_ Paul laughs, the sound devoid of humor. 'La Familia runs the West Side,' he explained. 'They keep the cops well supplied to look the other way, especially when it comes to the little things.'

'And by little things, you mean two untraceable fraudulent identities?' Jacob asks, the words sounding ridiculous even in his own ears. Paul reaches out across the seat and wraps his hand around the back of Jacob's neck, stroking the base of his hairline. 'Jesus, you sound like some kind of professor or something,' he says, smiling. 'Look, César doesn't run weapons, he stays out of the coke and heroin game, so what's a little forgery? His uncle was a cop, got shot in the line of duty. Half the uniforms in the precinct still buy shitty jewelry for their wives from Luisa.' Jacob shakes his head, knowing he'll never understand.

'It's not your world,' Paul answers, though Jacob never said a word. 'Seriously, though,' he continues, pulling out into traffic. 'St. Anthony? What the hell, man?'

'It seemed appropriate,' Jacob answers with a shrug. “He's the patron saint of safe travel.'

'Yeah,' Paul mutters under his breath. 'And lost souls.'

 

They find a room in a decent enough motel, two stories with wrought iron balconies looking out over an empty pool. The faded blue doors need a new coat of paint, but they don't mind pets, and Grace seems content to sniff her way around every inch. The room even has a fridge and a small TV. Paul promises to show him around town tomorrow, and Jacob takes a shower, changing into his sweats.

'I'm going out,' Paul announces when he's out of the bathroom, wearing a black hoodie and dark track pants. Jacob nods, understanding without a word. 'Bring back some wine, ok?' he jokes, and Paul smiles before closing the door.

Outside, he slips on a pair of leather gloves and walks several blocks past the closest tienda, down into a half-lit warren of pawn shops and neon signs advertising for strip clubs. He ducks into an alley and leans against the bricks, waiting. Several minutes pass before a skinny kid wearing too many chains and a cap turned backwards shuffles up to him from behind a dumpster. He offers Paul a smoke, and they exchange brief coded greetings before haggling over the price of a few grams. Paul eventually agrees, and reaches into his pocket for his billfold. The kid makes the mistake of looking down as he sorts through his stash, and Paul's arm goes around his neck, throttling him into silence. Paul pulls him behind the dumpster, left hand covering his mouth and pulls a knife from his pocket with his right. The blade flicks open and slices through his throat in one smooth motion. It's over in less than a minute.

Paul checks the space at the end of the narrow alley, lifts the cover of the dumpster just to check, and listens carefully for any would-be ambushers. Unfortunately for the kid, he had been working his turf alone. Paul wipes the blood from his knife on the kid's shirt before cleaning his face, polishing his glasses on the t-shirt beneath his jacket. He scrawls a rival gang's tag on the brickwork in chalk above the body, propping it up against the dumpster's back side and emptying the kid's pockets of tiny foil packets. No one looking to gain ground in this part of the city would leave even an ounce of tar behind, but Paul figures he can drop them in waste bins around town without attracting notice. The thick wad of bills he tucks in with his own, before hopping the fence and looping back around to the convenience store, satisfied he's left nothing behind.

He tucks away the knife and gloves while under the cover of a jacaranda and calmly walks out to the street beyond. The wine he buys is cheap, but the girl at the counter smiles up at him coyly when he asks for a pack of smokes and he gives her a wink as he leaves. If she'd noticed any blood on his clothes, smelled anything but smoke rising up from his fingers, she wouldn't have smiled. Paul threads his way around the neighborhood and ventures a bit beyond into the larger, well traveled streets of Tampa. Every so often he pauses, gloves back in place, to crumple a small piece of his receipt around a foil packet and toss it away, soon to be forgotten with the morning collection.

 

Paul leaves the wine on the small table when he gets back, a telenova playing softly on the screen while Jacob sprawls across the bed with Grace. He yawns, watching Paul unzip his hoodie and wipe the gloves thoroughly on his white undershirt. He kicks off his shoes, black like the rest, and follows suit. When he's finished, the shirt is spotted heavily with blood. While Jacob figures the knit jacket will do just fine in the wash, he knows for certain that shirt would be best fed down an incinerator. He watches Paul slip out of his pants and head for the shower, an unmistakeable smile shadowing his lips. Jacob knows he won't always be along for the ride, not every time, but he trusts Paul to keep them safe.

Paul emerges from the shower wrapped in a towel and Jacob has two plastic glasses filled to the brim with cheap, red wine. Paul smiles at him, gathers Jacob up in his arms and kisses him, hard. It's a while before they get around to drinking the wine, but Jacob doesn't mind the wait.

 

Paul takes him around town the next day, shows him the sights, such as they are. They cross the bridge over to St. Pete, and Jacob wants to drive around every tiny, tidal neighborhood that seems to have risen up organically from the sea sometime in the 1950s. They walk along the pier, have drinks at a rickety beachside stand, and spend as much time in the aquarium as Jacob wants. That night, they find an oyster bar downtown where an elderly man serenades them with jazz standards and they both order too many martinis, stumbling out into the street to catch a taxi.

The next day, they get tickets to a Lightning home game, lounging around in bed until they're exhausted and sore and sleep away the afternoon. At the Forum, Jacob watches Paul's expression shift throughout the match, a fierce face off against the Jersey Devils that runs into overtime. Paul's excitement and rage at the referees is infectious, and before long Jacob rises to his feet beside him, spilling their beer and shouting for the home team, who send the puck sailing home to score the winning shot.

They while away the third day taking Grace to Cypress Point Park, walking the trails and swinging their legs off the pier. They order huge tourist drinks at a ridiculous tiki-themed stand, and let a small group of old ladies from a tour bus coo other them. Paul takes a nap in the shade while Jacob walks Grace along the sand, filling his pockets with beach glass. When Jacob's energy finally runs out, they go back to the motel and Paul tells him to stay behind this time, he'll take care of the rest. Jacob protests, but Paul wins out and Grace whines as the door closes behind him. 'It's ok,' Jacob comforts her, stroking her fur, and hoping that the nature of their business in the city won't make him a liar. An hour goes by, Jacob watching the clock every second, flipping past channel after channel without ever settling on one. By the time Paul finally walks back in, there's a half empty bottle of wine on the bedside table.

He sits down on the bed beside Jacob, letting a large leather satchel slide down to the floor. 'You do know I used to do this for a living, right?' Paul asks lightly, running his hand down the side of Jacob's face. He nods, wrapping his hand around Paul's and kissing his palm. 'I just – I know you can handle yourself, believe me, you're a lot tougher than I am.' Paul leans in and kisses his forehead, drops down to taste the wine on Jacob's lips. 'I'm not worried about the cops or the gangs or any of that,' Jacob continues when he pulls away. 'But we've still been using the same names since we left Virginia, and what if Charlie or Vince tracks us down?'

Paul covers Jacob's hands, pushing them down against the comforter. 'We haven't used those credit cards since I booked the plane tickets in Norfolk,' Paul reminds him. 'I watched you shred them at that Office Center when the cashier wasn't looking.' Jacob nods, but he'll feel better when they can use new credit cards, under their new names, without mismatched driver's licenses in their wallets. 'Sure, a couple of restaurants ID'd you, but they're never going to remember your name.' Jacob frees one hand to punch Paul lightly on the shoulder. 'Don't hate me for my youthful beauty,' he smirks, trying to play off the worry that still makes his hands shake.

'I doubt any cop has bothered to run your tags,' Paul continued. 'We've been excellent citizens. I never even parked illegally,' he says with a playful smile. 'I've paid for everything else in cash, this room, the groceries, our gas. Every time I draw money out of Billy's account in Norfolk, I hack back into their ridiculous excuse for a security system and change the serial numbers of the machines. If anyone actually checks, Wil Wilson and Billy Thomas have been spending money in and around Sioux Falls for the last two weeks.'

'We weren't on that flight,' Jacob presses. 'They could find that sort of thing out, couldn't they?'

'So we ran late and changed our tickets. Trust me, small airlines screw up passenger manifests for missed flights all the time. I've had to use that trick once before, actually,' he admits. 'If I wasn't worried about getting red flagged by the FAA, I'd hack into their systems, too. There's an explanation for _everything_ , Jacob,' Paul promised, holding his gaze. 'And as soon as we check out of this dump, we won't be Wil and Billy anymore.'

'We never were,' Jacob says with a small smile, shelving his concerns in favor of what Paul's briefcase might contain. 'So are you going to show me what's in the bag, or what?'

Paul obliges, dumping the contents of the satchel onto the bed. A new license plate falls out, from the state of Washington, and Jacob can't believe his contact was able to get something like that in three days time. The Buick is registered to Paul Moreno Alvarez, who, according to his driver's license, resides in Bellingham, Washington. A second license slides out, belonging to one Jacob Eliot Barnes, and Jacob holds it up to the light, marveling at the inlaid watermarks and forged signatures of state officials. The address is the same, a street he's never heard of, much less lived on.

'How could he put addresses on these?' Jacob asks. 'We don't even have a place to stay out there yet, and I thought we could give Seattle a try, at least at first -'

Paul interrupts him. 'That's the beauty of it. We're in the Washington State DMV. I've got the property records for the house right here.' He slides out a folder containing a sheaf of documentation, most of it incomprehensible to Jacob at first glance. 'It was a foreclosure, up for government auction, and for all intents and purposes, we stole it.'

Jacob's draw drops in fascination. 'It's a real dump, though,' Paul continues. 'We can go see it if you want, but from the way César described it, it's barely liveable.' Jacob blinks in confusion, trying to sort out the plan from here. 'So,' Paul continues, 'when we get to Seattle, I figure we can find an apartment, go down to the DMV and get new ones printed. This is solid work, I've used César's services before for much higher stakes.'

Jacob decides not to ask what sort of situations those 'higher stakes' would have put Paul in, and all the danger that must have come with them. 'All we need is a rental agreement or something from the new place, and they'll just hand us perfectly legal, viable identities in the state of Washington. Also,' he adds with a hint of sarcasm, 'maybe we can try for better photographs.' He grunts at the pictures César chose to edit against a blank blue background, wincing at the surprised expression on Jacob's face.

'If the Buick survives the drive out west, we can just change the registration there, too. Everything's already in place. If we need a new car by then,' he says, his tone heavily suggestive, 'we might be able to outright buy a used one, completely above board, and put it in one of our names.' Jacob shakes two passports out of the bottom of the bag, perfect replicas of the one he remembered having as Jacob Wells.

'César added a few stamps for us,' Paul chuckles. 'Vancouver, obviously, and what I imagine would have been an extremely luxurious trip down to Puerto Vallarta.' Jacob laughs, imagining them reclining in beach chairs and sipping ridiculous drinks. He thumbs through his passport, admiring the detail and the subtle aging the forger had thought to add. 'Apparently I studied at Rouen,' he says with surprise.

'Well,' Paul reasons. 'That explains your excellent grasp of the French language and inherent superiority complex.' Jacob rolls his eyes, but doesn't argue.

'How did he do all this on his own?' Jacob asks after a moment, still frankly astonished. 'Oh, he didn't,' Paul corrects. 'This kind of thing would have taken two or three weeks for one man, even one as good as César. We have some, ah, mutual acquaintances on the West Coast, and I've been reliably informed that I owe them something in return.' Jacob looks up, a hint of worry returning to his eyes, and Paul puts his hands on his shoulders to steady him. 'It won't be a big deal. They're as far off the radar as we're going to be. Nothing I do for those guys will get us caught, I promise.' Jacob nods, choosing to believe him.

'You've still got our Birth Certificates, right?' Jacob questions, unnecessarily. 'And our Social Security Cards?' Paul smiles, and pulls the green binder out of a small, locked travel bag with solid sides. 'This was my dad's,' he explains. 'He didn't know I knew the combination, probably never even knew it was gone. You know, before a sniper took his head off.' Jacob shudders a bit, still slightly uncomfortable with the way Paul can so casually discuss his father's death. Then he ponders for a moment, exactly what it would have been like to get up from the dinner table one Thanksgiving and take the electric meat slicer to his father's throat. The spray of blood across his mother's face, the fashionable tablecloth ruined beyond repair. That would have been a story for the ages, he thinks, upstaging even Emma's casual disposal of her mother before the appetizers.

Paul notes the smile coiling its way around Jacob's lips, twitching at the thoughts behind his eyes. 'You're thinking about it, aren't you?' he asks. 'Killing your father.' Jacob nods, and the smile solidifies. 'We could do it, you know,' Paul offers. 'Once things have settled down and Joe's dead or back in jail. When we're solid on the opposite side of the country, and could take a trip without being noticed.'

'Maybe we should,' Jacob answers, the smile never leaving his face.

 

They switch out the plates on the Buick that night, keeping the old one until they can dump it in a junkyard somewhere out west. They check out of the motel, but it's the 31st, and Jacob convinces Paul to stay just one more night and enjoy the celebration. They'll be invisible in the crowd, and it's been too long since he's seen some proper fireworks.

They find a bar on Franklin Street without a velvet rope to contain the lines other venues are attracting, and pay a minimal cover. It's dark inside, filled with high-backed wooden booths and a bar that extends the entire length of the joint. Paul orders a scotch, neat, while Jacob tries his luck with a Manhattan. The drinks are outrageously overpriced, but neither one of them can bring themselves to mind. They settle into a booth near the back and drink, Paul ordering a second round before Jacob's properly settled into his first. He takes notice of a slow drivel of traffic out the back exit, and excuses himself, telling Jacob with particular emphasis that he's going to stop by the men's room.

Paul slips out the door behind another patron and ducks to the right, finding exactly what he's looking for in a slender young man, his face turned away. He can hear the man's companion dealing in broken English at the far end of the alley, just out of sight and around a corner. He slips on his gloves and jabs his blade home just under the fourth rib, one hand covering his target's face before he can cry out. He stabs each kidney for good measure before dragging the body behind a stack of City trash bins, all lined up neatly in a row. He fumbles through the kid's pockets, re-appropriating a sizable amount of cash and two bottles of pills before hastily painting La Familia's sign on the whitewashed wall behind him in blood.

He slips back into the bar unnoticed, removing his gloves and stuffing them in his pockets before visiting the washroom. He plays the drunk, unsteady on his feet, figuring the high flush across his cheeks will only add to the guise. Ducking past several other party goers, he slips into a stall and looks himself over for the slightest mark or stain, finding only a bit of gravel on his shoes. Paul smiles, pleased with his latest score. There's a bloody mess in his jacket pockets, but the money stays clean in his back pocket and he can always wash the plastic bottles later. He flushes the toilet and washes his hands and face before the long mirror, pretending to fix his hair. Not a single detail remains out of place when he exits the room and heads back to their booth.

Jacob can tell, his eyes bright and full of questions. Paul presses one finger against his lips and whispers, 'Later,' before motioning the waitress back over. He orders one more round for the both of them, and they're gone before the police arrive. They cut through a park on their way back to the car, giving Grace a good long walk before Jacob finds a hotel on this side of town that's willing to accept pets, albeit for a ridiculous fee.

They manage to find it after getting lost twice, and check in at the front desk, leaving the number from one of Paul's many fake credit cards with the clerk. It'll float at least as long as they need it to, and Paul's still not ready to use their new identities so close to home. The clerk's friendly, and asks where they're from, if they've come into to town to visit relatives. Jacob returns her smile and says they're from Washington, just down to visit friends actually, and enjoy some much needed time off. They've got good timing, she says, handing them a set of cards to the last available room on the top floor facing Channelside.

The king sized bed and a giant flatscreen take up most of the room inside, but the ninth floor balcony provides a nearly perfect view out over the waterway. Paul grabs the blood-stained rag from a plastic baggie inside their luggage and meticulously cleans his gloves in the bathroom. He wipes the gore from his knife and polishes the blade with oil before shrugging on a different jacket and joining Jacob on the overhang. Paul settles into a deck chair and tells him in hushed tones about the dealer outside the bar, reveling in the execution of his attack. 'It was over and done before his partner ever noticed I was there,' Paul claims, his smile a hundred miles wide as he pops the cork on a bottle of champagne. Jacob compliments his strategy, blaming the hit on the gang whose territory Paul had soiled only three days prior. They sit back together, Paul pouring two glasses of champagne and watching the first pyrotechnic bursts burn through the ever present city haze.

'Remember watching the fireworks last summer?' Jacob asks, drinking half his plastic flute in one go. 'Yeah,' Paul answers fondly, 'with Sarah. I never thought we'd get her up there.' He laughs, and Jacob joins in, knowing that for the moment, Sarah Fuller is probably still alive and well, working double shifts and cursing her interns' foolish mistakes. He wonders if it will bother him later, seeing it on the news, but then a brilliant gold star explodes against the sky and he lets the past fall away like so many drops of fiery rain.

The crowds below swarming the plaza begin the familiar countdown, and at precisely 12:00 am on January 1, 2012, Paul refills Jacob's glass and offers him a toast. 'Tomorrow,' Jacob says, excitement livening his tone, and Paul answers back. 'Tomorrow.' The dull clinking of plastic sends them both over the edge into fits of laughter, and by the time the second bottle is gone, they're staggering back inside, arms clasped about each other's shoulders and falling into bed.

Jacob's never had a head for champagne, and even Paul's hands feel hot and unsure against his skin. They fumble out of their clothing, Grace snatching up bits and pieces to curl up with them in a pile near the door. She nibbles at her food and water, left out for her in the bathroom, while the noises she's grown accustomed to rise from the bed. She settles in for the night and leaves them to it, soft canine snores rising from her snout.

Jacob slides down Paul's body, teasing at his nipples and the trail of hair leading down to his cock. Paul groans and lifts his hips, eager for Jacob's touch, his lips, his tongue. He gets all of them as Jacob wraps his hand around Paul's cock and lightly strokes up and down, teasing the thin membrane of foreskin before slipping the rest into his mouth. He's sloppy drunk, but so is Paul, and all that matters is his fingers against Paul's hips, Paul's hands in his hair and the way Paul's come tastes in his mouth when he eventually shudders and gives way with a gasp. Jacob swallows and wipes his mouth on the back of one hand, climbing back up Paul's body to kiss him hard on the lips. Paul's hands roam across his skin, fumbling to give back and Jacob rolls over and lets him. Paul moves slow, his grip tight at the base of Jacob's cock, his tongue dipping down into the swells of his hips. He bites at the inside of Jacob's thighs, his fingers sliding up and down, teasing into the slit, already wet. Paul licks his way up and over, rising up on his elbows to suck Jacob's soft, slick head into his mouth, his teeth catching lightly on the strained muscle just below the head before sliding all the way down. Jacob moans his name, rocking his hips back and forth and for once, Paul doesn't even try to hold him down against the bed. This is all they need, the night and the moment around them and Jacob comes hard against Paul's clever tongue. He smiles, pressing his face into the hollow of Jacob's hips and breathing in the scent of their mingled sweat. They fold together under the sheets, Paul reaching out to flick off the one lamp still burning. Jacob dreams, his rest untroubled, and they nearly sleep right through check-out the next morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> So Chapter Four was getting really long, and I decided to break it up into a few separate parts. There will be more of this storyline in the future, I promise.
> 
> Unbeta'd once again, with apologies. All mistakes are mine, and I'm sorry if I've misrepresented a town you're familiar with!


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